The Legacy

Jude’s eyes. ‘You were waiting for me?’ he frowned.
    Jude shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I didn’t know you were coming. What are you doing here? Where’s Anna? And the children?’
    But Peter didn’t answer and Jude watched wide-eyed as he fell to the floor. It was only when he looked down that Jude saw the footprints on his clothes, realised that he had been literally trampled, the black marks on his face the bruises and dirt from having his face pressed into the ground. Where? How? He wanted to know, but he couldn’t ask. Instead he turned to Sam, who immediately leant down and picked Peter up. ‘I can carry him,’ he said in answer to Jude’s silent question. ‘Come on. We have to go.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Jude said on autopilot, then, rounding up the children, he assigned rucksacks to Sheila and the supporters, picked up his computer, silently pointed the way and followed them out.

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    Chapter Fifteen
     
    In the Cut was busy that morning, bustling with men and women having their hair coloured and dyed, wigs fitted, eyelids injected with botox and skin rubbed with almond oil. As the world outside descended into chaos, In the Cut was a sanctuary of civilisation, of peace, of denial. No mob rule here, no checkpoints, no fear to grip them – just dim lights which cast flattering shadows on clients as they sat back on comfortable chairs, in this temple to the god of beauty, of self-preservation.
    Julia Sharpe flicked over the pages of her e-magazine, but her eyes weren’t focusing on the articles or pictures that it contained. Instead she was staring ahead at her reflection in the mirror, fearful, afraid. No rash. There was no rash. She was safe. But for how long? Would she be next? Two of her neighbours had been taken in the night – were they terrorists or had they taken the contaminated drugs? She went to the same pharmacist as one of them. Would she be next? How would she know?
    Forcing her eyes away, she found herself looking surreptitiously at the woman reflected in the mirror next to hers. Her name was Sylvia and she was wearing a mask – a protective mask that had been explicitly prohibited by the Authorities because there was no need for them, because those selling them were profiteers, because the rumour of a virus was sedition. There was no illness. It was impossible. It was the work of Underground propaganda.
    Julia looked away; it unnerved her.
    ‘So, the same colours?’ her hairdresser Jim was asking her. Julia looked at him vaguely.
    ‘I’m sorry? Oh, colours. Yes. Same as usual. Thank you.’
    She forced her eyes back to her own reflection, to the wrinkles under her eyes, the drooping jowls she so despised. Was it her imagination or did her eyes look tired – not just the skin around them but the irises themselves? Then she shook herself. She was imagining it. Everyone was going mad, caught up in fear. It was what the Underground wanted. She would not fall for it.
    She scratched her arm then, realising what she was doing, stopped herself. The itch was imagined. Next she would start to believe the prophecies that were being spouted on street corners about the end of the world, about the eternal winter coming finally to an end.
    Eternal winter? There was a reason for the cold weather – something to do with the sea. Everything had a rational explanation. She would not allow herself to fall so easily into the insanity that appeared to be gripping the nation.
    She was having her hair done. What could be more normal than that?
    Clearing her throat, Julia tried to think of something to say – one of her usual topics of conversation: her bridge evenings; the cost of petrol; the new, ugly developments being erected for immigrant labourers which were a blot on the landscape and a constant reminder, as her husband regularly remarked, sighing, that the small island of Great Britain was simply getting too full. She usually enjoyed her conversations with Jim – enjoyed the opportunity to regale him with her opinions as he listened and nodded, never butting in to disagree with her as her friends and acquaintances so often did; never shaking his head and telling her that she didn’t understand as her husband always did.
    But today her mind was full of everything and nothing, hope and despair, neither of which she’d countenance. It made small talk a little difficult.
    ‘So how are you today?’
    ‘Me?’ She forced a smile. ‘Oh, I’m . . . I’m fine, thank you. Very well.’
    Her